An 1845 image of Frances Trollope. Image: Hulton Archive/Getty Images
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Reviewed: O My America! Second Acts in a New World by Sara Wheeler

British women across the pond.

O My America! Second Acts in a New World
Sara Wheeler
Jonathan Cape, 288pp, £18.99

The travel writer Sara Wheeler’s ninth book, O My America!, tells the story of six remarkable British women who journeyed to America over the course of the 19th century. Frances Trollope, Fanny Kemble and Harriet Martineau are quite well known, if infrequently read nowadays. To these, Wheeler has added the adventures of Rebecca Burlend, Isabella Bird and Catherine Hubback, whose stories she found in archives.

After lives as wives and mothers, all six, for very different reasons, began to write about their adventures in the new world. As Wheeler was also facing middle age, she explains, these women provided for her an imaginary sisterhood, offering solidarity and hope for new beginnings.

Fanny Trollope, the mother of Anthony, published more than 100 volumes over the course of her life. Her Domestic Manners of the Americans, describing her travels in the US, came out in 1832, when she was 53. (The first volume of Alexis de Tocqueville’s better- known Democracy in America appeared some three years later.) Trollope’s book was immensely popular in Britain; though it was as widely read in the US, it was far less popular there and inaugurated a new slang term, to “Trollopise”, which came to mean “to abuse the American nation”. Kemble could see that Trollope was striking a national nerve: “How sore all these people are about Mrs Trollope’s book,” she wrote. “She must have spoken the truth now, for lies do not rankle so.”

Fanny Kemble. Image: Hulton Archive/Getty Images

Kemble, the most famous actress of her day, was on an acting tour of America when she met Pierce Butler, a wealthy slave owner. She quit the stage to marry him and their disastrous union led to much unhappiness and two books. The first was Journal of a Residence in America (1835), a tactless account of the people she had met, which unsurprisingly made Kemble unpopular with her new neighbours. She followed it up decades later with the far more significant Journal of a Residence on a Georgian Plantation, her excoriation of institutional slavery from the horrified perspective of someone forced to live alongside it for years. Kemble’s passionate arguments for abolition were credited with helping to persuade Britain not to support the Confederacy during the American civil war.

Harriet Martineau was, like Kemble, a famous woman when she sailed for America in 1834 and also a social reformer and outspoken critic of slavery. Her Society in America was published in 1837 but Martineau is more fun to read about than to read, as Wheeler admits. For her voyage to the US – on-board the sailing packet United States – Martineau carried a stone hot-water bottle and horsehair glove, with which she rubbed herself down in lieu of exercise, and tied herself to the post of the binnacle to watch hurricanes. Martineau thought that the moral degeneracy of the slave-owning American South might be countered by teaching the people there to play cricket, which she thought would improve their moral fibre.

She was a popular writer but an unpopular woman. Dickens said that she was “grimly bent on the enlightenment of mankind” and based Bleak House’s Mrs Jellyby on her – but he also said that Society in America was the best book ever written about the young republic. He spoke of her “vomit of conceit”; Hans Christian Andersen had to lie down for the rest of the afternoon after meeting her. Mary Wordsworth, whom she often visited in the Lake District and probably thought a friend, considered Martineau a “pest” and Matthew Arnold’s response to her death was, “What an unpleasant life and unpleasant nature”, which is quite an epitaph.

The lesser-known women get less space. Burlend was a pioneer homesteader; Bird a neurasthenic invalid at home, a kind of British Alice James, who suddenly burst into vigorous life when she travelled. Her journeys in the Rocky Mountain region with a one-eyed prospector read like tall tales. Last comes Hubback, who was Jane Austen’s niece; after her husband’s mysterious breakdown left him in a mental asylum, she followed her adult children to America in the 1870s.

Wheeler wants to claim more significance for these women than perhaps they merit: she declares Burlend’s history “a masterpiece of oral literature, a Homeric black earth saga”. Perhaps, but none of the brief précis Wheeler offers in any way substantiates this claim, although some of the anecdotes are memorable.

Indeed, it is a book filled with rollicking anecdotes and entertaining facts. Trollope was appalled by American manners, including “strange uncouth phrases” and “loathsome spitting”. “Let no one who wishes to receive agreeable impressions of American manners commence their travels in a Mississippi steamboat,” she counselled: “I would infinitely prefer sharing the apartment of a party of well-conditioned pigs.” She found that Cincinnati had no municipal sewerage system for a city of 28,000 people; garbage collection was left to the pigs roaming the streets. The female population of Milwaukee was a grand total of seven and there were more duels than days of the year in New Orleans. On Lake Huron, Martineau “shared a cabin with a fat man, their bunks separated by a white counterpane fastened by four forks”.

And yet Americans were also absurdly prudish: Trollope claimed that one American woman fainted upon hearing the word “corset”. Bird shocked the inhabitants of a drawing room by taking out her quill; a porter told her that writing in public was not permitted. Class, race and slavery are recurring themes, as Trollope and Kemble both struggle with the bizarre American idea that servants are people, too. Kemble dined with the former president John Quincy Adams, who shared his edifying reflections upon Shakespeare: Desdemona’s fate was “a very just judgement upon her for having married a nigger”.

In addition to telling these wonderful tales, Wheeler’s conceit is to “follow” these women to America, sometimes physically retracing their steps, at other times imaginatively linking their experiences with her own. Yet her sense of identification with her subjects too often tempts Wheeler into presumption. She repeatedly refers to these redoubtable women as “my girls” and tells us that Kemble “was the most like me, internally, of all the women in this book”. Kemble “lived enough life for all seven of us” – namely, Wheeler’s six subjects plus herself. Wheeler continues to equate Kemble’s experiences with her own in increasingly problematic ways.

As Kemble pours out her “regret and anguish” at slavery and her sense of entrapment by a husband who took the notion of wifely obedience as his God-given due, Wheeler adds: “I had the dimmest insight into that, having written myself through the throes of a bitter parental divorce when I was 15.” She tells us that after decades of life as a pioneer, Burlend came to like her adopted compatriots. Wheeler continues: “Her experience was close to my own. On the whole Americans are a friendly, polite lot, lacking that northern- European reserve that edges so easily into froideur. I remember, on my first ever visit, fetching up as a 19-year-old at the University of Tuscaloosa when the students were engaged in the frenzied ritual of Rush Week.” Yes, that sounds just like Burlend’s tales of near-freezing, near-starvation and delivering her own children in a wilderness. I wouldn’t want to abandon my American friendly politeness but such passages left me decidedly froid.

I will forgive much, however, in a book that informs me that when Mark Twain was in San Francisco, a prostitute at the Hotel Nymphomania handed him a card advertising: “Three hundred pounds of black passion. Fifty cents.” And it is also true that one of Wheeler’s stories might give good reason to question the wisdom of American scholars. A scholar whom Trollope encountered told her: “Shakespeare, madam, is obscene and, thank God, we are sufficiently advanced to have found it out.”

This article first appeared in the 25 March 2013 issue of the New Statesman, After God

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Jonn Elledge and the Young Hagrid Audition

I auditioned for Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, for the part of “Young Hagrid”. Except I didn’t.

I’ve been dining out for years now on the fact I auditioned for Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, for the part of “Young Hagrid”. It’s one of those funny stories I tell people when a bit drunk, under the no doubt entirely wrong impression that it makes me sound like I’ve lived an interesting life.

Except, when I came to write this thing, I realised that it’s not actually true. I didn’t actually audition for the part of Young Hagrid at all.

Technically, I auditioned to be Voldemort.

Let’s start from the beginning. In November 2001 I was in my last year at Cambridge, where I split my time roughly equally between pissing about on a stage, writing thundering student paper columns about the true meaning of 9/11 as only a 21-year-old can, and having panic attacks that the first two things would cause me to screw up my degree and ruin my life forever. I was, I suppose, harmless enough; but looking back on that time, I am quite glad that nobody had yet invented social media.

I was also – this is relevant – quite substantially overweight. I’m not a slim man now, but I was much heavier then, so much so that I spent much of my later adolescence convinced that my mum’s bathroom scales were broken because my weight was, quite literally, off the scale. I was a big lad.

Anyway. One day my friend Michael, with whom I’d co-written quite a bad Edinburgh fringe show eighteen months earlier, came running up to me grasping a copy of Varsity. “Have you seen this?” he panted; in my memory, at least, he’s so excited by what he’s found that he’s literally run to find me. “You have to do it. It’d be brilliant.”

“This” turned out to be a casting call for actors for the new Harry Potter movie. This wasn’t unusual: Cambridge produces many actors, so production companies would occasionally hold open auditions in the hope of spotting fresh talent. I don’t remember how many minor parts they were trying to cast, or anything else about what it said. I was too busy turning bright red.

Because I could see the shameful words “Young Hagrid”. And I knew that what Michael meant was not, “God, Jonn, you’re a great actor, it’s time the whole world got to bask in your light”. What he meant was, “You’re a dead ringer for Robbie Coltrane”.

I was, remember, 21 years old. This is not what any 21-year-old wants to hear. Not least since I’d always suspected that the main things that made people think I looked like Robbie Coltrane were:

  1. the aforementioned weight issue, and
  2. the long dark trench coat I insisted on wearing in all seasons, under the mistaken impression that it disguised (a).

Most people look back at pictures of their 21-year-old self and marvel at how thin and beautiful they are. I look back and and I wonder why I wasted my youth cosplaying as Cracker.

The only photo of 2001 vintage Jonn I could find on the internet is actually a photo of a photo. For some reason, I really loved that tie. Image: Fiona Gee.

I didn’t want to lean into the Coltrane thing; since childhood I’d had this weird primal terror that dressing up as something meant accepting it as part of your identity, and at fancy dress parties (this is not a joke) I could often be found hiding under tables screaming. And I didn’t want to be Hagrid, young or otherwise. So I told Michael, quite plainly, that I wasn’t going to audition.

But as the days went by, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. This was an audition for a proper, actual movie. I’d always had this idea I must have some kind of talent*, and that Cambridge was where I would find out what it was**. What if this was my big break?*** What if I was being silly?****

So when it turned out that Michael had literally started a petition to get me to change my mind, I acceded to the inevitable. Who was I to resist the public demand for moi?

And so, I graciously alerted the people doing the casting to the fact of my existence. A few days later I got an email back inviting me to go see them in a room at Trinity College, and a few pages of script to read for them.

The first odd thing was that the script did not, in fact, mention Hagrid. The film, I would later learn, does include a flashback to Hagrid’s school days at Hogwarts. By then, though, the filmmakers had decided they didn’t need a young actor to play Young Hagrid: instead that sequence features a rugby player in a darkened corner, with a voiceover courtesy of Coltrane. The section of the script I was holding instead featured a conversation between Harry Potter and a character called Tom Riddle.

I asked my flat mate Beccy, who unlike me had actually read the books, who this person might be. She shuffled, awkwardly. “I think he might be Voldemort...?”

Further complicating things, the stage directions described Riddle as something along the lines of, “16 years old, stick thin and classically handsome, in a boyish way”. As fervently as I may have denied any resemblance between myself and Robbie Coltrane, I was nonetheless clear that I was a good match for precisely none of those adjectives.

I’m not sure what I was expecting when I went to the audition. I don’t suppose I expected Chris Columbus to be there, let alone Robbie Coltrane ready to embrace me like a long-lost son.  But I was expecting more than a cupboard containing a video camera of the sort you could buy at Dixons and a blonde woman not much older than me. She introduced herself as “Buffy” which, given that this was 2001, I am not entirely convinced was her real name.

“My friends always tell me I look like Robbie Coltrane,” I told her, pretending I was remotely enthusiastic about this fact. 

“Oh yeah,” said Buffy. “But he’s really... big isn’t he? I mean he’s a huge guy. You’re more sort of...”

Or to put it another way, if they had still been looking for a young Hagrid, they would have wanted someone tall. I’m 6’, but I’m not tall. I was just fat.

If they had been looking for a Young Hagrid. Which, as it turned out, they weren’t.

The section I read for was included in the final film, so with a bit of Googling I found the script online. It was this bit:

TOM RIDDLE Yes. I’m afraid so. But then, she’s been in so much pain, poor Ginny. She’s been writing to me for months, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes. Ginny poured her soul out to me. I grew stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful enough to start feeding Ginny a few secrets, to start pouring a bit of my soul back into her...

Riddle, growing less vaporous by the second, grins cruelly.

TOM RIDDLE Yes, Harry, it was Ginny Weasley who opened the Chamber of Secrets.

I mean, you can see the problem, can’t you? I don’t remember this many years on what interpretation I put on my performance. I suspect I went beyond camp and into full on panto villain, and I dread to think what I may have done to communicate the impression of “growing less vaporous”.

But what I do feel confident about is that I was absolutely bloody awful. Five minutes after arriving, I was out, and I never heard from Buffy again.

So – I didn’t become a star. You probably guessed that part already.

In all honesty, I didn’t really realise what a big deal Harry Potter was. I’d seen the first film, and thought it was all right, but I was yet to read the books; three of them hadn’t even been written yet.

I had some vague idea there was an opportunity here. But the idea I was missing a shot at being part of an institution, something that people would be rereading and re-watching and analysing for decades to come – something that, a couple of years later, at roughly the point when Dumbledore shows Harry the Prophecy, and a tear rolls down his cheek, would come to mean quite a lot to me, personally – none of that ever crossed my mind. I’d had an opportunity. It hadn’t worked out. Happened all the time.

I do sometimes like to think, though, about the parallel universe in which that audition was the start of a long and glittering career – and where the bloke who played Tom Riddle in this universe is scratching a living writing silly blogs about trains.

*I don’t.

**I didn’t.

***It wasn’t.

****I was.

Jonn Elledge edits the New Statesman's sister site CityMetric, and writes for the NS about subjects including politics, history and Daniel Hannan. You can find him on Twitter or Facebook.

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